As a supporter of “No on Prop. 8,” or as I like to think of it, “No on H8,” no one was happier than me to see the ban on gay marriage in California declared unconstitutional this week by the 9th District Federal Court.

Having been married for 33 years to the same man, I’m not concerned that gay marriage makes my marriage less than sacred. Geez, I’m surprised in this day in age that anyone wants to make a life-long commitment to each other. People complain that gays are promiscuous, yet when they want to settle down and get married, some people get their undies in a bunch. Talk about a double double standard!

So in the wake of recent uplifting news (Hey, gays can now get married in Argentina and Mexico City!), I received a forward on Facebook entitled a Letter to Dr. Laura (Schlessinger) that had me LOL. Leave it to those snoops at Snopes to get the skinny on this letter, which it turns out has been floating around since 2000. It’s a hilarious read and “best read as an essay offering a counter to the “homosexuality is wrong because the Bible says so” argument. It takes the bull by the horns, but explains why you shouldn’t cook the bull. I strongly suggest you read it, or I might just have to smite you!

“Are you comfortable teaching Sex Ed?” My interview for a long-term sub job as a 6th grade Math and Science teacher was going extremely well when this question stopped me in my tracks. I really needed the job. I really needed the money. “No problem,” I said without a moment’s hesitation.

Middle School is a DMZ between elementary school and High School. Nothing prepared me for Middle School, except my own miserable experience in Junior High. And just referring to it as Junior High dates me. To be honest, I was less intimidated about teaching Sex Ed than teaching math. The principal informed me that the regular teacher had fallen off a desk while hanging a project up from the ceiling and was out on disability. (Later, I learned there was more to it than that, but that’s between you and me.)

I taught one period of math followed by one period of science with the same students twice a day. The good part was I got to keep the good students for TWO whole periods. The bad part was I got to keep the bad students for TWO whole periods. The class was pretty much equally divided between Asians (mainly Chinese) and Latinos (mostly Mexican). I had my token white student, who had Asperger Syndrome, and could rattle off the box office take for every Batman movie. And there was one African American girl named Princess. Don’t get me wrong. There were some really wonderful kids, whose parents couldn’t afford to send them to private school. And there were some really not so wonderful kids, who already had two strikes against them. Once the hormones kick in, sometimes it’s hard to tell one from the other.

If you’re like Middle Schoolers, you’re already getting restless. “When is she going to start talking about the good stuff?” Penis. Vagina. I just threw those in to keep your interest.

During Period 4, I taught Intervention Math for students who were more than two years below grade level. This class included two Gypsy boys, who’d moved to California from Chicago when their father was released from prison. They had never been to school, spoke Bulgarian, and were still learning their ABC’s. I had another student, Eddie, who was prime gang recruitment fodder. Yeah, it was grim. If things got really bad, I could call Ed, the behavior aide, who wore mirrored wraparound sunglasses, and would escort the “offender” from the classroom. Round up the usual suspects.

After the first month, two girls told me someone had written something bad about me in a book. “Does it rhyme with witch?” I asked. They exchanged looks and seemed disappointed that I wasn’t more shocked. So, I was less than thrilled at the prospect of teaching these same kids Sex Ed.

Oh, I forgot to mention one small detail. In the class next door, there was a 6th grader who was pregnant. Yes, the girl (and she was a girl) was 12. The father was 19 and the girl’s mother planned to raise the child as her own. (Think “She’s my sister!/She’s my daughter!” from Chinatown) The girl’s belly was already showing, and some of the girls wanted to have a baby shower. Suddenly, teaching Sex Ed seemed way more important than teaching the kids to calculate the radius of a circle.

There didn’t seem to be an actual curriculum for Sex Ed. There was just talk about The Film. And about the all important Money Shot, where the animated penis gets an erection. But, I had yet to see The Film, so I had no idea what to expect. Another veteran teacher, who’d taught Sex Ed for years, told me she liked to break the ice by writing PENIS and VAGINA in huge letters on the board. But, I was a sub. I really needed the money. I did not plan to write PENIS or VAGINA in huge letters on the board.

There were two Chinese American girls, who sat at the back of the classroom. Compared to some of the other students, who were 12 going on 21, they were almost childlike and sat two stuffed bears on their desks each day. I couldn’t help but notice on the day we were to discuss Sex Ed, they’d made blindfolds out of Kleenex and covered the bears’ eyes.

Day 1 -The atmosphere in the classroom crackled with anticipation. I thought we’d start by talking about where our attitudes and information about sex come from. We made a list: Parents, friends, TV, movies, music, music videos, religion, and books (including comic books with those busty vixens who ride shotgun to the superheroes). So far, so good. I was actually surprised at how easy this was for me.

Finally, it was time for The Film. We should have just fast-fowarded to the “penis rising” shot as the kids were so eager to see the rumored launch, they weren’t paying attention to anything else. The star of the show finally made its appearance. The animation wasn’t top notch and the tip of the penis wasn’t even in the shot. It was like watching a bulldozer slowly lift a load of …?

After the film, students (some who were still flustered) were to write out questions. All students received a piece of paper and had to fold it it up, even if it was blank, and drop it into a bag. That way no one would know who asked the question. I read the first question, “Do people sweat when they have sex?” The class let out out a collective groan and looked at the boy with Asperger’s, who they knew had asked THAT question. “Well, sex is physical, so it is possible you’re going to sweat,” I answered. Okay, one down. I grabbed some more questions.

“Is having sex really like warm apple pie?” “Why do women like to be handcuffed to beds for sex?” “What’s a dildo?” “Will drinking Mountain Dew prevent you from getting pregnant?” “What’s rape?” “What makes people gay?”

Holy sh*t! Some of the questions seemed incredibly vulgar, but I came to realize that these were the only words the kids knew. Some questions were so graphic, I couldn’t read them aloud, but had to paraphrase them, or just toss them in the trash. When it came to sex, these kids knew Everything and Nothing. They’d watched sex acts on TV and in movies, but totally out of the context of a loving, committed relationship.

This is what I remember saying:

Because I don’t like apple pie and didn’t see the movie American Pie, that analogy is lost on me. I do like cherry pie though, so sex could be like cherry pie.

Sex without love is just sex. It’s like brushing your teeth only you can get pregnant.

I’ve never known any girl who said, “Boy, I wish I’d had sex earlier.” But I’ve known plenty (including my son’s friend who lost her virginity at 11 when she got drunk at a party) who said, “I sure wish I would have waited so it would have been special.”

If you were a sailor and went off to sea, would you rather your wife keep herself company with a carved replica of “yourself,” or have sex with another guy?

Rape doesn’t have as much to do with sex, as it has to do with violence. It’s a way for someone to use the act of sex to humiliate another person.

A good recipe for date rape usually includes alcohol.

The bell rang. But, it was like the students didn’t want to leave. Sex Ed was two days long, so we had another day of Q&A. As the kids filed out the door, I looked over and saw several boys combing through the trash hoping to nab one of the reject questions. Eddie, the wannabe gang banger, offered to bring one of his condoms the next day, but I told him that wouldn’t be necessary.

Day 2 – The students couldn’t wait to get into class and pick up where we’d left off.

“Handcuffs?” Well, maybe some people find that exciting, but that’s all about make believe (It’s not like I was going to introduce them to S&M), and some people like fantasy more than others. Just like when you’re a kid and you dress up and pretend you’re someone else. Remember how you’d pretend to arrest someone and haul them off to jail? They nodded. I drew a line on the board. At one end it said Some People (handcuffs) and at the other end was Most People (masturbation). Think of it as a Sex Ed graphic organizer.

“Mountain Dew as birth control?” I recognized the handwriting on that question. It belonged to a girl who was the top student in the class. The girl who won the DARE poster contest. I’d ridden with her in the back of a police car over to the Civic Center when she received the award. If she thought Mountain Dew might prevent pregnancy, they were all doomed. “When I was your age, it was Coca-Cola, and that’s just as silly as Mountain Dew,” I said. “The only way to be 100 percent sure you don’t get pregnant, is not to have sex.”

“What makes people gay?” What the kids didn’t know (and what I didn’t tell them), was that my own son had come out as gay three weeks earlier, so this was a subject close to my heart. I told them 10 percent of the population is gay. Let’s see, that would mean that 3 students in the class could possibly be gay. But I didn’t go THERE. Children can be cruel and quick to point fingers. But, here’s what I did say.

“If one day a year, all of the people who were gay had orange eyes, you’d be amazed at how many people you know have orange eyes. People you know, people you respect, even people you love. But many of them are afraid to tell you. They’re afraid that you won’t understand that this is the way they were born.

I was getting ready to pass the bag again when Princess raised her hand. “Can’t we just ask you the questions?” she said, and I realized she was speaking for the whole class. I nodded.

For the next half hour, students raised their hands and asked me questions that I can’t share with you. Because what happened was between me and my students. I answered each question as honestly as I could. As a parent, I kept in mind what I would want a caring adult to tell my child.

It was almost time for the bell to ring. There was time for one more question, and this time I got to ask it. “How many of you would feel comfortable talking to your parents about the stuff we talked about? The students’ incredulous looks told me what I already knew. I reminded students that their parents knew a thing or two about sex (after all, THEY were here), and that parents often feel awkward talking about sex too. As the students flew out the door, I saw the pregnant 6th grader walk past. I’d like to think that had it been a year earlier…

“Are you comfortable teaching Sex Ed?” Yes! I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

I have two sons. My younger son, Ian, happens to be gay. I didn’t set out to have a gay son. But then Ian didn’t set out to be gay, and to be honest, it came as a shock to him as well. He was confused about why he felt “different.” And he struggled alone. Even now, I can’t imagine what that was like for him when he was only nine and had a crush on a boy in the fourth grade.

When Ian was 14 and a half, we were sitting in the doctor’s office, and he announced he was gay. We laugh now remembering what happened next. I blurted out, “Oh my god, I hope my parents die soon!” This was because my parents had left their church in the Midwest over the issue of gay unions. My head was spinning. Driving home, I was in a fog. I’ve always had gay friends, but my son? My eyes brimmed with tears. Why me? What I remember most is what my son said next. “Mom, I’m the same person I was before – it’s just that now you know.”

“Please don’t tell Dad,” Ian asked. My response? “That’s like asking me not to tell your father the house is on fire!” So he told his dad who was surprised, but ultimately okay with it. Then he told his older brother who shrugged. “Just don’t expect me to go riding around in one of those gay pride parades.”

Ian felt such a sense of relief to be able to be honest about who he was. This was the same kid who had written “I’m gay” in Sharpie on the back of another boy’s jacket in middle school. Talk about confused self-loathing. It wasn’t easy for him though.

Ian, who’s outgoing and always had lots of friends, thought once he came out, other students at his high school would come out as well. He waited…and waited. There was one other boy who was extremely flamboyant, who Ian wanted nothing to do with. Ian had played Little League baseball and considered himself a jock. His attitude was, “If I want to hang out with a girl, I’ll hang out with a real girl.”

Looking back, I can’t believe how brave my son was. Yes, he took a boy as a date to the prom. He was confident no one would give them a problem as Ian is infinitely likable and has a wicked sense of humor. No one did, but I held my breath. As a parent, I was frightened that someone would lash out at my son, verbally or physically. But being young, Ian was convinced he could change the world – or at least people’s opinions – one at a time. And to his credit, he did and continues to do so.

Meanwhile, my husband and I found PFLAG ,Parents, Family and Friends of Lesbians And Gays. (I should note that at the meetings I attended there were also families with transgender children.) We met so many incredible people at those meetings. People came because they too had family members and friends who were gay. Those who’d been attending for awhile always described being able to acknowledge their child’s sexual orientation as an amazing “journey.” It was painful though when parents who’d just found out their child was gay came to a meeting. Some were still in such a state of shock or denial they couldn’t speak. But the important thing was they showed up. It was the first step on their journey.

There was a Chinese woman who wanted to know if there were herbs that could turn her son, who was in his 30s and a doctor, back to “normal.” There were African Americans whose childhoods were so interwoven with the church, they felt ostracized in their own community. And there were people who’d gotten married because, “I thought if I got married and had a family, it might make IT go away.” They’d come to the conclusion that telling a lie is easy, but living a lie takes a toll on one’s soul.

Eventually, I couldn’t keep The Secret any longer. After a year, I broke down and told my parents their grandson was gay. They were in shock, but they love Ian. Several years later when they were visiting, my father said to Ian, “Someday when you meet the perfect woman…” He caught himself. “I mean man,” he said. Ian was overjoyed as he adores his grandparents.

My son has never been interested in the club scene. “That’s not the way you and dad raised me,” he said with such earnestness, that my heart ached for him. He talks about “when I have a kid.” He has that optimism that comes with youth. It helps that we live in Southern California. Ian is still put off by “girlie” guys and was critical of people who are transgender until he saw the movie Transamerica. He watched it again the other night and said it made him cry. So even he has been on his own journey of understanding.

My son is now 22. He goes to college and he, and his boyfriend of a year, live with us. The other day he asked, “Mom, at what age are you considered a loser if you still live at home with your parents?” I told him with the economy the way it is, this might be as good as it gets. But we’re all okay with that.

I really don’t give much thought to my son being gay anymore. It’s just one part of who he is, but certainly doesn’t define him as a human being. I was disturbed though when he came to me last night and told me how upsetting it was when several young men chanted, “Yes on 8!” when he and his boyfriend walked by. Ian is a peaceful person, and it was all he could do to not say something. And of course, you always think of just the right thing to say afterwards. But hate, even though Ian knows it stems from ignorance, still hurts.

So when my friend TIna, who also has a gay son, emailed this morning that she’s going to attend a peaceful march tonight to protest the passage of “Yes on 8,” I said count me in. She and some of our friends marched last weekend. They sent me pictures of them holding their placards. What impressed me most was that most of those who showed up didn’t have a gay child. They were there because they thought it was the right thing to do. They believe in equal rights for all Americans.

So now it looks like it’s going to be a gay day. I can think of a lot of things I’d rather be doing on a Saturday night. But the stakes are just too high. We’re not talking about one of THOSE people. We’re talking about my son.

One of the most eloquent and impassioned commentaries I’ve seen on this issue is “Keith Olbermann’s Response to Prop. 8.” To view his commentary, please press the following link. Peace.

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